A break in rain, which fell steady all night,
leaves the woodpecker to fill lack with echo,
perfect rhythm beaten into branches swollen
green. One dart of dawn birds scatters droplets,
gentle cascade of wings. I wipe the page
dry of morning, wait for something unknown
to be made clear. As if between rain-bands
reason is ever-present, cloud-held, ready
to wash what’s past in downpour, or drown
futures in lush sodden lawns. Yet instinct
says what is one thing will soon be another.
I have found no way to avoid this thought,
which rattles me from sleep some nights in shocks
of light, cracking to earth as pulse of sky.
Clackamas Literary Review, Volume XXIV, 2020